


A Little Different, A Little Strange

by spirrum



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, alternative to the movie, because apparently I've got a thing for these kinds of AUs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-09 20:26:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4363016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the day of her wedding a fairy flew into the Dark Forest, a song in her heart and with no mind to look where she was going. Not the best time for inattention, but you know what they say about hindsight. </p><p>Now the Bog King has two troublesome fairies in his dungeon, but no idea what to do with either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Different, A Little Strange

**Author's Note:**

> Another 'what if' piece, because I have a mighty need and I cannot be stopped (although perhaps someone ought to, good grief this thing got long). But I had a blast writing it, so I hope you enjoy!

She’s singing when it happens.

That’s how she doesn’t see how far she’s ventured, all the way across the brook towards the Outskirts; how she doesn’t realize the precarious line she’s treading until she’s stumbling across it, a choking note of her song snagging at the back of her throat as the soft green leaves of her home gives way to a thicket of sharp and wicked brambles.

Something soft comes to land on her head, and when she makes to grab for it her horror is a rush of cold so violent Marianne nearly loses her balance.

“Primroses?”

Realization of what has happened (and the more pressing matter, _where she is_ ) settles a moment later, when she looks up to find herself at the mercy of a group of goblins. 

She doesn’t know who’s more surprised, but they recover before she does, and then there are hands grabbing for her, wrapping around her arms, and she’s not quick enough ( _not strong enough)_ to pull away.

“A _fairy_?” the growl of a guttural voice crawls across her skin as she’s tugged down to her knees, wings straining to tear herself away, but there are hands pushing them down, until they’re pressed, slack and useless against her spine.

Without the height advantage given by her flight, a smaller goblin makes its way over to peer into her face. “Looks like,” it says, before moving so close she wants to rear back, but is hindered by the weight holding her down. “After the primroses, are ya?”

“No! I didn’t–” But they aren’t listening, too busy arguing amongst each other, voices sharp and cutting and too rough for her to make out what they’re saying, though she doesn’t need to understand to know they’re not happy.

“What do we do with her?” she hears one of them ask then, one of the smaller of the group, with a round belly and slightly protruding ears, and considering Marianne with a look that borders on suspicion more than anger.

The goblin beside it tilts its head. “We could take her to the castle?”

“Well we can’t just let it _leave_ ,” the round one snaps. 

The smaller one hums, unperturbed by the other’s irritation. “Should we put her in the dungeon?”

And then she’s being scrutinized, and she feels less a person – an oddity, more than a living being. But it’s not anger at their careless handling that pushes itself up her throat, past her lips, but a desperate plea. “Please, I don’t – I wasn’t trying to–”

But she’s not being listened to, as the round one turns to the goblin holding her down. “We’ll put her in the dungeon until BK gets back. He’ll want to deal with this.”

“ _Wait_ –”

But her struggling is woefully ineffective, and with her wings flat against her back she’s hoisted up with all the grace of a sack of grain, her shriek lodging in the base of her throat as the world tips on its head, until she can’t tell up from down.

And so, still in her wedding dress but with her wedding the very last thing on her mind, Marianne finds herself pulled from the gentle spring of her home and towards the dark depths of a kingdom that has long existed in her thoughts as nothing but dangerous hearsay. But the creatures holding her captive now are real enough, and dread rises like bile, a wild an uncontrollable thing as she’s carried through the canopy shadows, the littlest goblin’s voice resounding with terrible warning – 

“He’s not going to be very happy!”

.

.

.

It’s raining when he returns, shortly after nightfall, and his mood has settled accordingly into something foul and irritable, punctuated by the _squelch-squelch_ of his heavy footfalls, and he’s just set foot inside his castle when the thought strikes Bog that _something is wrong._

Stuff and Thang are waiting, exchanging surreptitious glances at his approach, and he feels the headache approaching from a mile away.

“What is it?” And he can’t quite keep the irritation out of his voice, but oh it’s been a long day already, and their obvious discomfort promises that it will be even longer, though he doesn’t even want to guess why.   

“You tell him,” Stuff mutters, and Thang starts.

“O-okay.” Then, turning towards him, his voice turns very soft. “A fairy flew into the forest–”

The words register, and irritation surges to angry disbelief so fast he’s left reeling from it, “ _What_?” 

“–and tried to take a primrose,” Thang finishes with a squeak.

“A _primrose_?” The butt of his staff connecting with the floor has them both flinching, but he’s too angry to think straight. _Those blasted, fickle,_ _soft-winged_ –

“We put her in the dungeon, Sire,” Stuff says then, and all at once Bog’s anger comes screeching to a halt, replaced with surprise.

“Yeh caught her?”

They nod in unison, before Stuff speaks up again, “She, uh, was very vocal about it, but she seems to have calmed down now.”

And _there’s_ the headache, pressing between his brows with cheerful cruelty. He doesn’t even know if he’d have preferred for the silly thing to have gotten away despite her attempted thievery, but her current occupation of one of his cells bodes nothing but trouble.

His sigh sounds more like a groan, but when he speaks his voice resonates with command. “Take me to her.”

Snapping to attention, Stuff and Thang take off down the corridor, and Bog follows with the least amount of enthusiasm he’s managed since spring reared its ugly head some weeks earlier.  

 _That’s two fairies in his dungeon_ , comes the idle thought as he makes his way down the winding staircase, but he refuses to let his mind linger on the fact. The cages suspended from the ceiling are empty, and Stuff and Thang have stopped by the door to one of the bigger cells – the one meant for the larger creatures that frequent his kingdom, and Bog feels a surge of dry amusement, despite the circumstances.

“And what kind of fairy is it you’ve captured, to warrant this particular cell?”

They look at each other, before Thang stutters out. “She, uh – she put up a fight, Sire. We had some trouble getting her into one of the cages, so we…put her in this one.”

He almost feels impressed, but curbs the feeling before it has a chance to take root. He’s always known fairies to be soft creatures, easily subdued, but he refuses to ponder the backbone of the one they’ve locked up. Moxie notwithstanding, she’s still just a fairy, and so, turning towards the door he nods for them to open it.

The second it swings towards him, the fairy launches herself at the bars, and his surprise is startling enough to make him take an involuntary step back. 

“Release me!” she snaps, slender, clawless hands curled around the thorny stalks, and for all that she’s a wee sprig of a creature, the wild look in her eyes makes Bog forget all about softness.

“Feisty thing, aren’t you,” he says, peering close to get a better look. She’s dressed, as is the way of fairies, in a strange garment that he thinks may have been white once, but it’s near brown-grey with dirt now, and there’s a tear running down the length of it – no doubt from when they’d tried to put her in one of the cages. On top of that, she’s got a head of hair that’s unruly enough to put his mother’s to shame, and he notices with some amusement that there are twigs stuck between the strands.

All in all, she looks positively feral. 

“I said _release me_ ,” she repeats, voice deceptively sharp, but now that he’s had time to take in the sight of her Bog notices other things – the slight tremble of her hands where she grips the bars, and the fear that is so clearly present in her eyes, honey-dark and wide in her face, and much too expressive to successfully hide anything, though the hard press of her mouth and the deep furrow of her brows could have fooled him.

“Would that I could,” he’s saying then, taking a step closer. “But you see, trespassing is against the law in my kingdom.” He’s standing very close now, but not so close that she could reach him if she tried. “I could have let yeh go with a warning, but I was told yeh were trying to take a primrose.” He leans towards her, and is surprised when she doesn’t cower at the sight of his face. But he’d be damned if he let it show. “And ah’m afraid that’s a crime that goes beyond a mere slap on the wrist in this neck o’ the woods.”  

She’s shaking her head now. “But you don’t understand – I wasn’t trespassing on purpose! I was just looking for petals to make–”

“A love potion?” Bog asks then, voice harder than he’d intended, and so much so that it makes her flinch. But he’s too angry now to feel regret, though despite his accusation she doesn’t look guilty. In fact, looking at her Bog finds that his anger is not the only one that’s been ignited.

“It’s my wedding day!” she’s snapping then, sharp as a flytrap and sounding almost scandalous. “I don’t _need_ a love potion!”

The words sink in, and he looks at the dress, tattered thing that it is, and remembers some odd fancy of his mother from ages past, of the fairy tradition for the bride to wear white on her wedding day. A tradition that appears to have been tainted somewhat, by her little foray across the border.

“Please,” she’s saying then. “You have to let me go – I’m already late, and they’ll be looking for me.” When he says nothing, she adds, voice thick with a fervour that makes him want to take a step back again. “ _Please_.”

Bog regards her then – a pretty thing for her people, perhaps, with her twigs and her ruined dress, begging for her freedom so she can go back to the one she loves. To get married to someone who wants her, no potion necessary.

And anger gives way to regret then, which blossoms to something like grief, before finally settling like a weight in his heart that he knows to be jealousy. It’s an ugly, poisonous feeling, but he welcomes it like an old friend. He has no reason not to.

“You’ve broken the law, fairy,” he says. “And yeh’ll stay here until I decide on a fitting punishment for your crimes.”

Her disbelief reaches towards him as he turns to leave, the furious shriek echoing against the walls. “My fiancé will come looking for me, don’t think that he won’t! And you’ll regret locking me up!”

Bog turns then, and offers her one last look, taking in her wild appearance, a wee sprig perhaps, but not a pretty flower. A weed, more like, stubbornly trying to push her roots through the bars.

_Let her try._

“Let him come,” he calls back as he walks away, passing Stuff and Thang who’ve been watching the exchange with visible interest, his footfalls hammering the conviction in his words into the walls.

“All he’ll find here is _trouble_.”

.

.

.

“So Stuff tells me the new girl you’ve got in the dungeon is refusing to eat,” his mother announces an hour later, waltzing into the throne room with her hands already on her hips and the promise of a lecture in the raise of her brows.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bog spares a thought to the rotten luck that got him stuck with a fairy in the first place, and a troublesome one to boot. At least the Sugar Plum fairy doesn’t refuse her meals, for all that her presence in his castle is a living, breathing annoyance.

“Maybe if you tried offering her something fairies actually eat, she’d be more amendable,” his mother adds, disapproval a shrill note in her voice, and Bog sags back against the throne. When she’d found out about their new prisoner, Griselda had been less than pleased, to say the least. But his mother is nothing if not an opportunist, and so it comes as no surprise to Bog when she declares, “And you know, maybe a sign of good faith might make her warm up to–”

“ _No_ ,” he snaps, and Griselda’s mouth clamps shut, though her silence lasts about as far as his next breath.

“I’m just _saying_ , you can have a whole dungeon full of prisoners, and at the end of the day you’ll still be alone. And you know what I always say–”

Bog groans.

“–if have to look under _every rock_ –”

“Mother,” he says simply, desperately, and Griselda, having blessedly relented her usual persistence, throws her hands up.

“Stubborn, like your father! Well, you can nurse that obstinate heart of yours all you want. I’m going to see if I can’t get that poor fern to eat.”

Then she’s off, and Bog is left with the empty throne room, and a yawning gap in his heart he tells himself has nothing to do with her words.

.

.

.

The cell is damp, and the steady _drip-drip-drip_ of water somewhere beyond the doors her only companion in the silence where she sits, her back to a mushroom that she thinks is meant for sleeping, and that’s such a far cry from the soft petal-beds of her people she almost wants to laugh.

Except that she doesn’t laugh, and there is nothing truly humorous about her predicament, captured and locked up in the Bog King’s castle, like the Sugar Plum fairy of legend.

She’s lost count of how many hours have passed since they’d first tossed her in the cell, kicking and screaming, and since he’d visited, only to announce that she wouldn’t be going anywhere. But it’s late, she can guess that much. She would have been married now, and embarking upon her new life with Roland, the whole kingdom celebrating their union, the way only fairies manage, with song and dance and all the flowers in the Fields. 

A low growl tears through the quiet then, and Marianne grimaces. Her stomach feels like it’s tearing itself apart, but though they’ve offered her food, a strange obstinacy has made her refuse. Of course, she doubts there’s anything in the forest fit for her to eat, and she’d rather have her life than risk her death at the cost of a meal.

And Roland would be there soon, anyway. He’s probably already on his way, braving the Dark Forest to find her and bring her back. The thought is a meagre burst of warmth in the cold cell, but she latches onto it with both hands, determined to remind herself of the fact, so that when he finds her she can tell him she’d had no doubts.

The door to the cell is pulled open then, and she starts, not having heard the approach of whoever is on the other side. But it’s not the King, nor any of the goblins she’s met so far, but a small, raggedy creature giving her a toothy smile from beyond the bars.

“Honey, the rumours don’t do you any favours,” is the first thing she says, nodding to herself, as though having come to some sort of decision. “Look past the hair and you’ve got a decent face.”

Marianne only stares, caught so violently off guard the first thing that tumbles off her tongue is, “Thank you…?”

“Griselda,” the goblin coos. “And what’s your name, sweetheart?”

There’s a brief moment where she considers lying, but finding no good reason to, she relents. “It’s Marianne.”

But if she recognizes the name, the goblin gives no indication of it, only leans towards the bars with that odd smile. “Can I get you anything to eat, Marianne? You look famished.”

She feels famished, but the protest pulls itself from her lips almost without her consent. “Ah, no thank you. I’m – fine.”

Griselda doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure? My son’s kept you stewing down here for hours. Don’t you fairies eat regularly?”

She’s about to answer with an offhand comment about the constitution of fairies, when the words hit her.

“Wait, you’re his–” and it’s something of a mouthful to swallow, taking in the creature before her, stature smaller than her own. And the Bog King, towering taller than anyone she’s ever met.

If she’s bothered by her surprise, Griselda doesn’t show it. “Gets his looks from his father, my Bog does,” is all she says, and with a fondness that reminds Marianne of her father, wistfully remembering his late wife.

Of course, to hear the ferocious Bog King referred to as something as mundane as _my Bog_ is something she ought to have laughed at, but right now all she can manage is stunned surprise. She hadn’t expected this, but now that the opportunity presents itself, she’s loath to let it go.

“And is he always so…?” and she doesn’t know what she’s asking, exactly, but Griselda rolls her eyes as though she knows perfectly well.

“Unfortunately. But don’t you let him get away with it! My boy’s a stubborn one, but he’s not unkind, no matter what he’ll have you believe. There was a time he had the sweetest heart, but that didn’t end well.” Her expression changes to something Marianne thinks might be irritation, before she nods towards the other side of the room, and to what looks like a hole in the floor.

At first she doesn’t understand, thinking it another prisoner. But then a thought trickles through the confusion, a memory of an old story, told to keep naughty children from misbehaving. _Or the Bog King will get you._

There are no other prisoners, she realizes. No one in the cages above, and no one in the cells beside hers. But aside from herself now, there is one other person rumoured to have been locked up in the Dark Forest.

_The Sugar Plum fairy!_

“What happened?” she hears herself ask, before even considering why she’s asking; whether it’s out of simple curiosity or something else – something far more personal. Everyone knows Sugar Plum was locked up for making love potions, but Griselda’s cryptic words tell Marianne there’s more to it than that.

And she looks like she’s about to answer when another voice rises to fill the quiet left by her question – a lovely, lilting thing that seems starkly out of place in the dark and dripping dungeon of the Bog King’s castle.

“Would you like to hear a story?”

.

.

.

He returns to the dungeon when the moon has risen above the castle skylight, expecting to find her as livid as he’d left her, but upon opening the door to the cell the fairy regards him with a calm that has dread dropping like a rock in his stomach.

“What’s happened?”

She tilts her head, those oddly large eyes watching him with something he can’t pin a name to – some spawn of curiosity and… _pity_?

And then he knows.

He doesn’t know how the thought finds him, but it does, and then he’s turning towards the other end of the room, and the soft blue light emitting from the cell in the floor. And bitter fury turns his voice dark as he growls, “ _Plum_.”

Soft laughter issues from the cell, that lilting pitch he cannot stand, and when he’s tearing the covering away he finds her smiling face, still trapped within the orb but looking more pleased than he’s seen her in a long time.

“Bog,” she greets.

“ _What did you do_?”

She shrugs, and takes a moment to consider her nails. “Oh, me? I’ve just been enjoying the company you’ve so kindly provided. It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone to talk to, you know. You have my most sincere thanks.”

Oh, he knows – he knows it’s been a while, because the reason he’d locked her up was so that she couldn’t flap her gums about what had happened. But he hadn’t considered the danger of leaving the fairy in the same room; had foolishly thought they’d remain oblivious to the other’s presence.

But of course – his mother. She’d come to talk to the fairy, and must have drawn Sugar Plum’s attention in doing so. _Foolish, foolish–_

“I’m sorry.”

Bog starts then, and spinning around, finds the fairy still watching him through the bars. “What?”

But where he expects mockery, he only finds that odd sorrow. “I’m sorry, about the potion.”

Her words are slow in settling, and the honesty behind them even more so, and Bog can only watch, unable to wrap his mind around the fact that she’s not using the knowledge as a weapon, to carve her path to freedom. He doesn’t know anyone that wouldn’t, if given the chance.

She touches the bars then, but gently now, where she’d gripped them before. “But if you know what it’s like, loving someone and not being allowed to be with them, why would you keep me here?”

The words find their mark with surprising accuracy, leaving him short of breath, but she doesn’t drop his gaze, only looks at him with that strangely earnest expression.

He’s searching for an answer when the sound of running feet reaches his ears, and he turns to find Stuff and Thang running down the stairs, panting and out of breath, the former shouting–

“There’s an army at the door, Sire!”

.

.

.

Marianne’s breath catches at the words, before joy erupts behind her breast, along with enough relief to chase the damp cold from her skin.

The Bog King doesn’t look pleased, however, and for a brief moment terror grips her at the thought of what he might do.

But then he sighs – an old, tired sound. “Let the one who is here to get her come down. If he refuses, show no mercy.”

Fear surges in her chest, knowing Roland’s dislike for goblins, and that he would no doubt bristle at being given orders of any kind from one. But there’s nothing she can do but watch as the two goblins turn to make their way back up the stairs and out of sight.

Long minutes pass with her heart in a vice of worry, before there are footfalls on the stairs, heavy with the tell-tale _clank_ of someone wearing armour, and her fear turns mellow and warm with relief when she catches sight of him rounding the corner, a bright ray of light in the dark of the dungeon–

“Roland!”

Approaching the bars, her fiancé smiles, and despite the situation Marianne can’t quite contain her own, but it falls when his face contorts into a frown upon seeing her.

“ _Whoa_ ,” he says, halting in his step as he pauses to give her a quick once-over. “You look dreadful, Buttercup. Look at your hair, full of – are those twigs?” She fights the impulse to reach for it, when he adds, “Look how they’ve treated you, a Princess of the Realm! I won’t stand for this!”

“No, Roland, you don’t–”

But he’s already turning on the Bog King, though she’s relieved to see he isn’t drawing his sword. “What is the meaning of this treatment?”

The King only offers a raised brow. “She was like that when we found her,” he says then. “That is, the dress might have been less _brown_ , but we have nae harmed her.”

Roland doesn’t look like he believes a word, but then he’s looking towards her again, and seeming to find enough truth in her appearance to satisfy his outrage, he reaches towards her. “Well thank goodness you’re alright,” he says, and her heart soars. “I was worried we were going to have to postpone the wedding, and–”

Marianne blinks, the words coming to settle amidst the relief at seeing him and the prospect of being freed like a sharp thorn.

“Wait – what?”

Roland’s mouth snaps shut, and something like panic flickers across his face. And it’s such a brief thing, so easily missed with the charming smile that follows, but she’d caught it.

“Buttercup–” He makes to reach for her hand, but she pulls away from the bars.

“You were worried about the _wedding_?”

“Ah–”

“I go missing in the Dark Forest, and you’re worried about postponing our wedding,” she repeats, tasting the words and all the things they hold, and she doesn’t know why or for who’s benefit – her own or his.

“Now hold on just a minute,” he protests. “I never said I wasn’t worried about you, Marianne. I was relieved when I came down here. You could have been hurt – or seriously disfigured!”

“Disfigured,” she says, tongue curling around the word, bitter as a rowanberry. “I could have been _dead_ ,” she snaps, pulling the words from that deep place where her anger lies.

Something clicks into place then, and it’s not a thought slow in settling but a quick, sharp realization that steals her breath.

“Roland, why are you marrying me?”

The words fall into the quiet, and at the back of her mind she notes the Bog King’s brows lifting in surprise, but no one says anything, and at the heels of her words follow a silence so profound it rings in her ears.

Roland’s mouth is working, but no words are coming out, not to ease her worries or even to contradict the implication that lies behind her query.

She feels, suddenly, very cold.

He’s stepping forward then. “Marianne. _Buttercup_ –” but has to step back to avoid being hit by the sceptre that’s suddenly blocking his path.

“I think that’s as far as yeh go,” the Bog King says, voice holding a warning Marianne vaguely remembers from their first meeting, but there is something else in it, this time – something darker and heavy with promise slithering along the words.  

“Listen here, goblin–”

“ _Go_.”

They both look towards her then, surprise etched across their faces, so starkly different but for their shared expression.

Roland looks like he doesn’t understand. “What are you saying right now?”

She draws a breath. “I said go. Take your army. Go home.”

He’s shaking his head. “I came here to bring you back–”

“Well I don’t want to go back with you!”

The outburst takes him by surprise, and he rears back as though she’d slapped him. The sight makes a perverse sort of pleasure expand behind her breast. “If I go back, I’ll do it alone. I am not leaving with _you_.”

He’s looking at her like she’s gone mad, and perhaps part of her has, but her anger is a calm thing, and the cross of her arms drives the truth of her words home, she can tell by the way he slumps with disbelief.

It’s not enough to stop him, though. “Listen, I know you’re angry, Marianne, and we’ll discuss this when we get back–” He moves to walk forward again, but the staff is there to push him back.

“You heard the girl,” the Bog King says. “And I will agree to graciously let you and your army leave my forest, if yeh do so now and without a fuss.” For added emphasis, he shifts the staff, the wicked ornament angled towards Roland’s neck.

To Marianne’s surprise, the only protest Roland offers is, “And Marianne?”

The Bog King isn’t looking at her, and for some reason her breath is a short, light thing in her lungs as she watches his back, tense beneath those foreign, twitching wings.

“Is free ta leave when she so pleases,” he says at length. “Granted you accept my terms of your hasty departure.”

Roland looks at her then, but she finds in her heart only a tired anger, remembering now the countless times he’d brought up his excitement about their marriage, but with his position as King always at its heart. He’d call her his future Queen, never _wife_ , and she’d be charmed, too blinded by the endearment to see what was really behind it. 

He’s straightening then, squaring his shoulders in that way of his, and she half-expects him to announce that he’s not going to accept the terms given when he says, “Well, then. You’ve made up your mind, Marianne. When you come to your senses, you know where to find me.”

She would have laughed once, if told that this was the amount of effort he’d offer when faced with the task of rescuing her. But she’s not laughing now – she only feels tired. “Just go, Roland.”  

The Bog King proffers the staff again, and Roland backs off, turning towards the stairs with a last look back. And she knows it’s not the end of it – knows he’d never give up so easily, but she can’t muster any more anger, no matter how hard she tries.

The dungeon is quiet after his departure, almost eerily so, and not even the Sugar Plum fairy speaks up, though from their brief conversations so far Marianne has come to learn that she does very little but talk.

The Bog King turns towards her then, an expression on his face she can’t read. The staff is slack in his grip, and – he looks far less imposing now, she realizes. And she doesn’t know if it’s because of the story she’d just been made privy to, or the fact that he’d stepped in to keep Roland back. He’d had no reason to – he could have let fairy matters be fairy matters, and thrown them both out of his castle. Or worse, he could have had them both locked up.

But he did neither, and Marianne doesn’t know what to feel about that.  

“So,” she says, restless fingers brushing against the torn fabric of her dress. “That didn’t really go as I thought it would.”

He makes a sound she thinks might be a snort, and she relaxes a bit, glad he isn’t angry. Of course, she’s not out to push her luck now that she’s effectively sent away her rescue party.

“I’m sorry,” she says then. “I know you don’t want me here, but I just – I couldn’t go with him. Not after–” and she can’t even say the words. It all seems so – surreal, still. Yesterday she was going to get married. _She’s still in her wedding dress._

He shuffles his feet then – an oddly nervous gesture, for such a striking creature. “I, uh – understand.”

Marianne frowns. “Really?”

He offers a rueful smile that looks more like a grimace than anything else. “Ah know what it’s like. Someone not wanting yeh for–”

“You,” she finishes softly.

He nods. “Even a love potion was nae enough fer me.” He gestures to his face. “Too hideous, I suppose.”

“But you’re not hideous.”

The softly uttered words take them both by surprise, and she doesn’t know what to say after that, mouth hanging slightly agape and her hands pressed to the bars.

But then his expression changes, from surprise to suspicion, and darker still, to something that looks like fury. And when he stalks towards the cell, she’s too startled by the sudden change to think about stepping back.

And then his hands are curling over hers on the bars, holding her in place, and when he leans in it’s all she can do not to shrink back.

“Not hideous?” he asks her, voice dangerously low, and she hears that for all her honesty, he’s taken it for a falsehood.  

“I–” she begins, but she doesn’t know what to offer – reassurances, or her own anger in turn at his blatant disregard of her sincerity. As it is, all she manages is stunned silence.  

They’re standing very close, so close she can’t see much but the fury that’s warped his face into something truly ugly, and the startling, all-encompassing blue of his eyes.

And there’s something bubbling up within her then – an impulse that she hasn’t felt in years. Not since she was younger, a wild and adventurous thing, getting her knees scabbed and her hair full of twigs playing along the border with a carefree joy that had driven her parents out of their minds.   

Not since Roland, and his ‘that’s no behaviour fit for a Princess’, that had borne gentler things in her heart; that had turned her adventurous spirit a wistful memory.   

Hands still keeping hers in place, the Bog King appears oblivious to the path her thoughts have taken, and the reckless idea that’s grabbed hold of her heart now that makes her rise onto the tips of her toes, and before he’s had the chance to rear back or ask what she’s doing, she’s pressing her mouth to his in a kiss.

It’s an awkward angle, with the bars between them and her hands still trapped beneath his, and there’s a twinge in her neck from their difference in height, but the slant of her mouth is persistent, and she’s not thinking about her broken engagement, she finds, but rather that his lips feel surprisingly pleasant against hers, the scratch of the stubble on his chin sending a shiver up her back.

It’s – different, and daring, and entirely inappropriate but she’s not in a very proper state of mind. And though she’d been sure she’d have him jumping back, outraged that she’d dare touch him, let alone something like _this_ , she finds him returning the kiss, angling his head so as to lessen the distance. And his hands are still over hers, the insistent press of them a different sort now, and when she sinks against the bars with a breath it’s a sound that she doesn’t recognize as her own.

But it seems to snap him out of whatever had prompted him to respond, and then the weight of his palms disappears, and he pulls back so suddenly and so violently Marianne staggers forward.

And he’s looking at her now, not with outrage but a disbelief so potent it borders on betrayal. And the weight of what she’s done comes to wrap like shackles around her wrists, dragging her down until she’s kneeling behind the bars.

“I’m sorry–”

But he’s backing away, and he doesn’t offer a single word as he turns to stalk up the stairs, the heavy echo of his footfalls making her flinch with each step. She’s still gripping the bars as she watches him go, aware that despite her promised freedom he hasn’t let her out, but in light of what had just happened, she finds herself entirely unable to care.

“Well,” the voice from across the room purrs, followed by a delighted laugh that has Marianne’s heart dropping into her stomach. “This is an interesting turn of events!”

But with her hands cold against the bars and the lingering memory of his lips against hers before he’d pulled away like she’d burned him, Marianne doesn’t know if she agrees.

.

.

.

He’s pacing when his mother finds him, feet following mindless, circular paths before the throne as he grapples with the events of the night. Sugar Plum’s betrayal, the blond fairy showing up, and her sudden refusal to leave in light of his apparent deception. But trumping all of those thoughts, the memory clawing itself to the forefront of his mind–

“What did you do?” is the first thing Griselda asks, motherly accusation thick in her voice, and Bog spins around with all the petulant denial of a teenager.  

“I didnae do anything!” She did – _she_ was the one who’d initiated the kiss, he’s sure of this, but with only his own mind for company his confidence in the fact has dwindled to insecurity, because he just can’t wrap his mind around her reasons for doing it. What could have possibly driven her to such a thing?

“Alright then,” Griselda says. “What did she do? I’m assuming whatever’s got your wings in a twist has something to do with our guest.”

“ _Prisoner_ ,” Bog snaps, and doesn’t know why – he’d let her go. Well, he’d said he was going to let her go, but he’d been too busy fleeing those eyes to remember actually letting her out of her cell.

He stops pacing, and he feels his shoulders slump with something that smacks of defeat. It’s entirely disconcerting.

His mother is in front of him then, peering up into his face. “You’re hiding something,” she announces promptly. Then, eyes widening, “Did something happen between you two?” And it’s not surprise but elation that makes her voice shrill enough for Bog to wince.  

“Naething _happened_.”

“Pah! Like I’ll believe that. You haven’t paced like this since that what’s-her-name–”

“ _Mother_.” And he can’t take this – can’t deal with this again, once was more than enough for a whole life, but every time he closes his eyes now it’s not his old regrets that come to visit, but a very soft mouth against his, and her hands slender and smooth where he’d pressed them to the–

A roar that holds more grief than anger tears from his throat, and when he stalks off his mother doesn’t follow, and Bog is dearly grateful for the fact as he makes for the entrance, no set destination in mind but a need to get far, _far_ away from the castle and the dungeons and the irresistible pull of her eyes through the bars of her cell, beckoning even from the dark depths of his mind.

.

.

.

Hours later, and the Bog King hasn’t so much as set foot in the dungeon, nor have any of his henchmen, or his mother for that matter, for all her earlier meddling. And despite her still persisting hunger, Marianne has been dozing on and off, a strange exhaustion having taken hold of her at the heels of Roland’s departure, when the full realization of what she’d done had finally had time to register. She’d broken off her engagement – had sent her rescue party packing and effectively stranded herself in the Dark Forest for an indeterminable time.

_She’d kissed the Bog King._

The groan pulls free, and she presses her brow to her knees, hoping in vain that the pressure will chase the memory from her mind. But it’s not the memory of the kiss she wants to forget, but rather the look on his face. Though thinking about the former does little but make her cheeks flush and her mouth to go strangely dry.

She hadn’t planned it, and the consequences of that poorly thought-out decision are hers to deal with now, to nurse in the damp dark of her cell for however long he decides to keep her there. And she doesn’t blame him for any anger he might feel, because what must her actions look like, but the selfish impulse of a spoiled princess having just found out her fiancé was only after her crown? He must think her some beast now, playing with the hearts of others for sport.

She’s contemplating why it matters so much what he thinks of her, when there are footsteps on the stairs again, and she looks up, expecting Griselda, and finds surprise when she sees the now familiar shadow of his wings thrown large against the walls.

He approaches the cell warily, as though half-expecting her to lurch forward and kiss him again, and Marianne feels some shame at the fact.

“I’m sorry,” she says then, when the silence has stretched on to become uncomfortable. And when he doesn’t interrupt her, she’s quick to add, “I – there’s no excuse for what I did, and I shouldn’t have done it. I was _way_ over the line.”

He says nothing at first, only watches her. Then – “Why did you?” he asks, and it’s the last thing she expects, thinking he would rather yell at her for her audacity than question her reasons.

Her shrug is a helpless, useless thing. “I–” she begins then. “I don’t know.” She swallows. “It, uh, kind of just happened?”

He looks at her, incredulity turning to something like wry bemusement, and some of the fear bleeds out of her limbs. “That sort of thing doesnae _just happen_ ta me,” he tells her then, and her heart constricts at the old experience that lies behind the words.

“But haven’t you ever done anything just because you wanted to?” she tries then. “To – to try something, just because you want to know how it feels?”

“Oh aye,” he says. “I just cannae believe you’d want to know _that_.”

And therein lies the heart of the matter, Marianne discovers. And so, “It wasn’t bad,” she tells him, the words more forceful than she’d intended, but when spoken, she doesn’t want to take them back. “I mean–” she clears her throat. “It was…pretty good… actually.” And she’s blushing into the roots of her hair now, she’s certain, but that doesn’t seem to register with the Bog King, who’s looking at her like she’s spouting gibberish.

“Fairy–”

“Marianne,” she says, and doesn’t know why it’s suddenly important to her that he knows.

He sighs, as though she’s trying his patience. “Marianne,” he tests the word, and quite despite herself, her breath catches at what his voice does to the syllables she’s heard spoken her whole life. “You cannae be serious.”

But she only shrugs, because she doesn’t know what else to tell him. It was different than what she’s used to with Roland, smooth cheeks and, if she were to be completely honest, too much tongue. This kiss had been slower, warmer. No less insistent, but in a way that made her want to melt into it, not pull away from fear of things going too far.

The thought strikes her then, if that is how it’s supposed to be. That slow burn. The tingling in her stomach.

The sudden, inexplicable desire for things to go further.

It’s been a while since either of them has spoken now, and she feels oddly exposed under his scrutiny, sitting there with her knees pulled to her chest and with nothing to her name but the clothes on her back, and the tattered remains of Roland’s boutonniere tucked into the folds. She doesn’t know why she’s still go it; why she didn’t just toss it out when he’d left – a last-ditch effort at causing some damage to the one who’d been playing her for so long. 

She considers the Bog King’s sceptre then, and remembers the way he’d proffered it, and how Roland had kept a wary distance. 

“That has to come in handy,” she says then, nodding to the staff, and watching as surprise flickers in his eyes, before he looks at the weapon. “I wish I could fight with a blade or something,” she continues. “I wouldn’t have to depend on anyone. I could take care of myself.”

Something odd travels across his face then, but she can’t for the life of her guess what it means. But then he opens his mouth, though she’s entirely unprepared for the query that rolls off his tongue.

“Wuild you like me to teach you?”

.

.

.

He doesn’t know why he’d offered, claimed and driven by a sudden idea that had tumbled out of his mouth before he’d had a chance to steal the words back. And he’d been ready to rectify his mistake when she’d looked at him with such earnest intrigue his regret had all but fled his mind.

And so here they are, in the throne room now, the fairy ( _Marianne_ , he reminds himself) out of her cell and with an old sword balanced precariously in hands that look too slender for such a rough thing. But it had been the only suitable practice blade Stuff and Thang had been able to conjure from the armoury. After all, goblin weapons are not meant for fairies.

But she holds it with more surety than he’d expected her to, gingerly testing its weight, and her expression contorts with a strain he can tell she refuses to put into words. _Stubborn creature._

She turns towards him then, the sword held between her two hands, and Bog fights the urge to smile at the sheer determination on her face.

“What?” she asks, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, and Bog knows he hasn’t managed to successfully curb his mirth.  

“Naething,” he tells her. “You just look – very determined.”

She gives him a _look_. “Well I’m not going to have your brute strength, so I figured I’d have to compensate with something else.”

“Is that so,” he says, voice an amused rumble now that he doesn’t even bother to try and hide.

She holds the blade out, rusted, derelict thing that it is. “Do you think you can handle it?”

“Remember who’s teaching you, Tough Girl.”

 _That_ makes her smile – a bright, toothy stretch of the lips – and Bog frowns. “What?”

She shrugs. “Nothing.”

He points the sceptre towards her, the gesture loud and clear, and she rolls her eyes. “ _Fine_. It’s just – Tough Girl. I like it.” She shrugs. “It’s not Buttercup.”

Bog snorts, but doesn’t lower the sceptre. “I hate buttercups.”

She laughs at that, deep thing that resounds in the throne room and his chest. “That makes two of us.”   

“Well then,” Bog says, giving the staff a twirl, and watching as her brows quirk with something akin to amusement at his theatrics. “Let’s see what yeh’ve got.”

She draws a deep breath and nods, tightening her grip on the sword. But he doesn’t move to attack, only gestures with the staff to her legs. “Wider stance,” he throws towards her. “One nudge and you’ll topple like a tree.”

“Hey,” she counters, though she moves to take his advice. "Who's the tree here, you gangly branch?”

Bog only raises a brow. “Compensating again are we?”

The curl of her lip is a dearly pleased thing, and when he makes a swing at her she’s there to meet the blow with the blade. And with her brow furrowed with concentration, her blunt teeth pressed together, she looks less like a fairy and more like a forest creature, but he doesn’t tell her that – uncertain of whether or not she’d take it as an insult.

It doesn’t take her long to catch on, and then she’s parrying with something close to ease, though his advances are carefully controlled things. But she’s quick on her feet and limber, bending this way and that to avoid his blows, and for all that he’s always thought of fairies as frail and feeble creatures from their stature alone, hers gives her an advantage he had not counted on.

“Yeh have wings,” he reminds her, as he aims another strike, a bit quicker this time, and is pleased when the sword is there to meet it. “Use them. Gather momentum.”

She frowns, but does as told, leaping to the air. The added weight of the sword turns the movement awkward, but then she’s dropping, weapon raised as a roar tears from her throat. And he’s laughing when her blade connects with his staff next, before he’s pushing her off, and when she sails backwards this time the movement is a seamless arc through the air.

“Impressive!”

She huffs, but her smile curves wide and bright across her flushed face, and then she’s the one laughing. “Is that all you’ve got?”

He moves in towards her then, coming so close Marianne nearly trips over her feet in her hurry to evade. It’s only a show, of course, to counter her query with something other than words, and Bog is prepared for the surprise that erupts across her face as his hand comes to grasp her shoulder, to keep her from stumbling, and putting them front to front with barely space to breathe between. He’s prepared to make an apology, and to tell her not to get too confident.

What he’s not prepared for, is the way her eyes shift to his mouth.

It’s the very briefest of gestures, but it’s got them springing apart, as though from an actual, physical blow. And he’s clearing his throat, his earlier confidence replaced by something that feels a lot like nervousness.

“I’m–”

“Yeh–”

They both stop, and Bog promptly forgets what he’d been about to say. And from the looks of things, Marianne is none the wiser.

“I’m sorry,” she says then. “That was–”

“Over the line?” he asks, but there’s no malice behind it now, he’s surprised to find.

She breathes out a laugh. “Ah, maybe just toeing the line?”

They look at each other then, standing almost comically far apart now, and Bog realizes belatedly he’s been holding his staff at the ready, as though to ward off any unexpected advances. But when he relaxes his hold on the weapon, he can tell she notices.

“Is it…that hard to believe?” she asks then, after a lull.

Bog tries to ignore the way his shrivelled heart decides to react to those words, and when he counters it’s with a wary, “What?”

She swallows, and shifts her stance. She’s holding the sword without trouble now, though she doesn’t seem to be aware of it. “That I’d want to–”

“Yes,” he says, before she can finish. Because he can’t have her saying that, here, now, after what happened in the dungeons. He’s already in trouble, and if she keeps _pushing_ –

She’s walking towards him then, her steps slow and measured, and Bog has to fight the urge to counter her approach by stepping back. She doesn’t have her weapon raised, but it feels like an advance, and holding his ground without raising his in turn takes so much effort his hands are left twitching around the staff.

She comes to stop before him then, and for one terrifying moment he’s not sure what she’s about to do – whether or not she’ll actually raise the sword, having used a distraction to catch him off guard.

The stray thought hits him then, that perhaps that had been her plan all along. _Compensation,_ she’d said, and it would explain her behaviour better than any other urge she might claim to possess. Pretty fairies don’t go around kissing Bog Kings for any discernible reason he can come up with.

She’s very close now, the sword held slack in her grip, and the instinct to move away is dwindling fast, slipping between his own feeble fingers at such a speed he doesn’t have the mind to even think about preserving it. Instinct is survival in his forest, but here he is, tossing it all away at the whims of a wide-eyed fairy princess.

She rises to stand on the tips of her toes then, wings unfurling to give her an extra push upwards, and then her eyes are slipping shut, heavy things framed with those strange, thick lashes, to cast odd shadows against the pale rise of her cheeks. And he’s so mesmerised by the sight he can’t do much but stare.

Good sense kicks in with her soft intake of breath, felt against his lower lip, and Bog backs away so fast the sudden change nearly has her losing her balance. But she catches herself at the last moment, though she drops the sword in surprise, and the sudden _clang_ rings through the throne room with such force it succeeds to startle him out of his daze.

“I think—that’s enough fer today,” he’s saying then, and before she can protest he’s turning on his heel, intent on escaping the sight of her; the memory of the feel of her breath and the intent so clear in her eyes.

She doesn’t call after him, and Bog feels the relief like a physical thing. Because part of him knows, with near staggering certainty, that he wouldn’t have been able to keep going if she had.

.

.

.

He’s avoiding her, she realizes the next day, when he’s nowhere to be found.

“He does this from time to time,” his mother informs her, over what she’s been told is _marsh tea,_ though Marianne hasn’t dared so much as sniff the steaming cup cradled precariously in her hands. “Don’t worry that sweet, unruly head of yours about it.”

“Yeah,” Marianne says, eyes fixed on the contents of her cup, too dark to make out the bottom, before lifting her eyes with a grimace.

Griselda looks at her then, with that uncannily sharp gaze that makes Marianne feel like she’s just blurted all her thoughts to the room. “You know,” she says. “He’s not the most perceptive boy, my Bog. You might want to be a bit more forward.”

It’s with a forced smile that Marianne nods. She doesn’t want to say that she’s tried forward and it didn’t work; that _forward_ was what had sent him running in the first place. Nor is she feeling particularly up for discussing – whatever it is that’s budding between her and the Bog King.

 _Bog,_ she thinks, but doesn’t dare try speaking the name. Not with his mother present, and talking like she’s hearing wedding bells.

When she looks up from her cup this time, Griselda is still peering at her. “What?”

The goblin shrugs. “Just trying to get a read on you, honey. You’re not exactly an open book, you know, but then maybe that’s just the way of you fairies.”

Marianne wants, inexplicably, to laugh at that, because hasn’t she been told her whole life she’s worn her heart on her sleeve and her every thought on her face? But it would seem fairy expressions do not convey quite as easily to goblins.

 _Which would explain a few things,_ she thinks. Bog’s penchant for misreading her sincerity for mockery, for one.

“So,” Griselda continues. “Have you decided on how long you’re staying?”

She swallows the groan that rises up from her lungs. It’s been less than three days since her capture, but there’s been no missives from the Fields, and no more armies at the door. Perhaps she ought to send a note, before Roland convinces her father of doing something reckless.

“I should be going back,” she admits, because it’s the truth. Dawn will be worried, and their father beside himself. And there’s still the question about her broken engagement, and the wedding that is not going to take place.   

“But you don’t want to,” Griselda offers, not even trying to hide how gleeful she is at the fact, and Marianne can’t help the small smile.

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” she says, and it’s not a whole lie, but it’s not the truth either. She knows what she wants – the exhilarating rush of holding a blade between her hands, and the warmth brought by the admiration kindling in his eyes. She wants the easy conversation, the playful banter and the laughter that he’d so effortlessly drawn from the very bottom of her stomach.

She wants the shiver along her spine and the tingling in her knees by a thing as simple as _proximity_.

She’d thought she’d had all these things with Roland, but it had not been admiration in his eyes but fond condescension, and their conversations had never been so effortless, nor had his kisses ever brought the kind of reaction she’d felt in that cold dungeon cell.

Her tea sits, cooling in her hand, and Marianne finds herself at a loss.

But she’s spared the trouble of making her decision now, as a presence at the door alerts itself, drawing their attentions. And Marianne hopes her surprise at finding him there doesn’t show too well on her face, though from what Griselda had said, there’s hope that she’ll fool him still.

“Mother,” the Bog King – _Bog_ – greets, and he’s very pointedly not looking at her, Marianne realizes. “I wuild like a word with our – guest.”

Grin as wide as she’s ever seen it, Griselda puts her cup down. “Of course! I’ll leave you kids alone.” Then she offers Marianne what could only be described as a pointed look, before she shuffles towards the door, a noticeable skip in her step.

Bog sighs, and it’s a heavy sound that tells her this is a regular occurrence. But he doesn’t move to step inside, choosing instead to linger awkwardly in the doorway.

“Tea?” Marianne offers dryly, proffering the untouched cup.

He offers it a raised brow. “That will rot yer stomach.”

She hums. “I figured, but your mother is…” she searches for a word that does not sound unkind, because she does not intend to be.

“Persistent?” Bog offers, with equal dryness, and she grins.

“Something like that.”

He takes a step inside, and it’s a hesitant thing, but it’s a start. “I have sent an envoy to your father,” he says then. “Explaining the, ah – situation.”

Her surprise escapes with her breath. “Oh.”

“I wouldnae want to start a conflict,” he explains.

“No,” she agrees. “Neither of us want that.”

“Regardless,” he continues. “I do believe yeh should…” and he doesn’t say it, but she can’t determine whether or not it’s because he can’t, or simply won’t. Either way, it makes something warm swell behind her heart.

“I should be getting back,” she says for him, and finds in his brusque nod a reluctance that makes her strangely happy.

“Aye.”

Marianne considers the cup in her hands, and his presence in the doorway, and the words she wants to say but can’t find. There are so many things she had counted on her wedding day to bring her, but he had not been one of them, but now that she’s got him it’s something of a feat letting him go.

And she doesn’t think he’ll be very receptive to her saying so. _Not yet_ , she thinks, and hinges her hope on those meagre words.

“So,” she says instead, the bright word pushing through the cracks left by his laden admission. “What about one more lesson before I go? My footwork still needs some practice.”

She’s happily surprised when he snorts. “Some?”

She makes a gesture as though to chuck the cup at his face, but he only chuckles. “Fine,” she admits. “A lot. Now will you help me, or should I just keep doing it wrong?”   

The Bog King considers her then, sitting there in the remains of her wedding dress, hacked off at the knees and with her teacup held out like a weapon.

“I can do that,” he tells her softly. And it’s a start, and for some it might be nothing, nothing at all, but oh, for her it’s everything.

“Good,” Marianne says, though it doesn’t even begin to explain what she feels. And it might not be what she wants, but she doesn’t want to ask for more than he’s willing to give.

And so she’ll take what she can get. It’s more than she could have hoped for, anyway.  

.

.

.

It’s been altogether four days since her wedding day, when Marianne finds herself back at the border. The Dark Forest looks less imposing now than it had, sprawling wild at her back where they stand below the naked primrose stalks reaching towards the canopy far above.

It’s just the two of them, side by side before the rise that marks the outskirts of her kingdom. A sliver of blue sky is visible through the branches and the thick, dark leaves, and the sun glitters gold and promising above.

It’s a calm place they’ve chosen for their parting.

She turns to Bog then, watching the border with an indeterminable expression on his face. "Thank you.”

He starts at the words, before it’s replaced with a now familiar wariness. “For what?”

Marianne shrugs. “Without you, I’d be married now.”

A brow lifts. “That’s nae something a bride would usually give thanks for.”

“Oh, I know,” she says. “But I’m free, and…I have you to thank for that, however indirectly your actions led to said freedom.”

“You’ve been free for some time,” he tells her drolly, and Marianne rolls her eyes.

“Not like _that_ , though you did take your sweet time letting me out of that cell.” She lets out a fond huff. “What I mean is, I’m free to choose someone…who wants me for me.” And if the words imply anything at all, it’s because she tries her very best, but from the look he’s giving her, Bog is not catching on.

She takes a step towards him then, holding his gaze. “You deserve that, too, you know,” she says, words fierce things from her heart. “You deserve someone wants you for you. Not because of some potion. Or for any other reason.”

The slight widening of his eyes tells her he’s finally caught on, and she smiles. And then her hands are in the folds of her dress, pulling out the boutonniere she’d been making when she’d first stumbled across the border. And if it hadn’t already been ugly when she’d crafted it, her time in the damp cell with it pressed against her heart hasn’t done it any favours, but the way his eyes light up when he sees it gives her the courage she needs to hold it out towards him.

“I want you to have this.”

He looks at it, and then at her, and when she lifts her hand in a silent offering it’s with deliberate care that he plucks it from her fingers.

“It’s–”

“Hideous,” she’s quick to finish for him. “But I, uh, wanted you to have something, and it’s all I’ve got. I know it’s not very–”

The words are lost against his mouth, when he dips his head to kiss her, the hand not holding the boutonniere coming to grasp her chin. And it’s a good thing, for how her knees buckle under his touch.

But when he pulls back this time he doesn’t step away, and she can see that he hadn’t planned it, can see that he’d acted on impulse, and the realization that dawns across his face draws laughter from her lips.

"It’s more than I deserve,” he says then, but from the way his eyes linger on her face, it’s clear he’s not talking about the boutonniere.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Marianne chides. “I don’t make those for everyone.”

“No, I don’t suppose yeh do.” He pauses then, looking at the boutonniere. “And the other guy?”

Marianne pauses at the quiet question. She could say a great many things about Roland – could voice her uncertainty of what awaits her when she returns, or that she doesn’t think he’s close to giving up – but she doesn’t. Instead her hands come to touch his, closing his fingers gently around the boutonniere, and marvelling silently at the differences between them. His one is large enough to cover both of hers, but when she presses against his fingers he relents.

“What other guy?” she asks simply, and smiles when he draws a startled breath.

They stand like that for a while, her hands curled around his. It’s gotten progressively darker since their arrival, the sun having dipped low enough to cast their side of the border in shadow. It’s high time for her to go, but reluctance skips a restless beat in her chest.

“Will yeh–” he clears his throat. “Will yeh be coming back?”

And despite everything, the naked concern in his voice has her smile stretching wide. “I was counting on it,” she admits. “I want to practice my footwork.”

He gives her a look that tells her he’s trying to be droll, but the lingering uncertainty is oddly endearing. “And is that all?”

Her hands tighten around his, soft palms against his rough hide, and when she speaks next it’s with the most conviction she can manage, and the words laced with an affection she draws from deep within herself.

“No,” she tells him, and sees in his eyes that this time, he believes her. And it’s a bright thing that kindles in her breast, along with the sure knowledge of what it is that she wants.  

“That’s just my excuse.”

.

.

.

She’s disappeared over the rise, lilac wings vanishing between the branches and out of sight, when Bog feels a presence at his back.

“And here I thought I’d never see the day,” Sugar Plum declares, but it’s not with the smugness he expects, but something else – something that could almost be described as sincerity, if he were not so naturally inclined towards suspicion.    

And regardless of whatever sentiment lies behind her words, she’s still offering him that infernal, knowing grin.

“Don’t make me regret releasing you,” he warns, though it feels an empty threat now, with his heart no longer wrought by betrayal.

“You know, Bog–”

“Bog King.”

“ _Bog_. I did tell you if you kept an open heart–”

“Don’t.”

“–you wouldn’t need a potion. And now look at you!”

Bog only sighs. “And are yeh happy?”

Sugar Plum counters with a smile that is entirely cunning. “Are _you_?”

“I–” but he keeps the words from tumbling out, suddenly unwilling to share them, lest speaking them out loud would somehow curse this fragile venture to failure before it’s even had time to take root.

But despite his silence, the fairy only smiles. “Love is strange,” she tells him. “But don’t let that deter you, now that you’ve finally got it.”

“I don’t–”

She waves him off. “If you don’t think love is what’s budding between the two of you, then not even I can help you.” She motions to the boutonniere still cradled in his palm. “An ugly thing like that? Straight from the heart. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been stuck in this place long enough. No offence to your forest, but I’ll be glad if I never set foot here again. Figuratively speaking of course, as I don’t have feet.” She laughs then, that trilling sound that makes him twitch.

“That’ll be two of us,” Bog retorts, though it’s not nearly as scathing as he’d hoped, as she takes off towards the canopy. But before she can reach it, she stops, halted by something he can’t guess at, and doesn’t really want to.  

But, “The reason the potion didn’t work wasn’t you,” she’s saying then, turning to look at him over her shoulder. “The one you dusted was already in love. And there’s no potion in the world strong enough to fool that.”

Bog thinks he might have stopped breathing. “What?”

Plum shrugs. “I would have told you sooner, but you know, there was that whole _locking me up forever_ thing that kind of got in the way.” Then she points a finger at him. “But I’m telling you now, so you don’t carry that with you. For the girl’s sake. I like her, she’s got spunk. So do us both a favour and don’t mess this up.”

 _Easier said than done_ , is what he wants to say, but all he can manage is, “How?”

Her look softens at that, and for all that he’s kept her locked up and blamed her for something that was out of her hands, what she offers him isn’t animosity. “Just be yourself. It’s worked out pretty well so far, from where I’m standing. Or, you know, floating.”

She doesn’t give him a chance to respond – to contradict her, or to stutter out his disbelief – as she shoots up through the canopy with a loud _whoop_. And her laughter echoes back to him, a fae wind to rustle the leaves, but Bog feels no irritation.  

Only a very small, very _fierce_ spark of hope.


End file.
